Will Ye Go Lassie, Go?
by Alpacca Joe
Summary: St. Patrick's Day has left Holiday Island Again and is looking for a date to celebrate his holiday with. Who will be the lucky Lawndale lady, and what sorts of misadventures will occur?


"**Will Ye Go Lassie, Go?**"  
3/15/11

A dumpster rolled aside, its wheels like the rumble of thunder in the quiet night. A diminutive figure pulled itself from the distorted bit of wall left bare by the displaced trash receptacle and stood brushing itself off, head swiveling from side to side as though searching for witnesses.

Satisfied that it remained unobserved, the figure stood fully upright and strode off down the alley, heels tapping gaily against the littered concrete.

**00000**

"What's the first thing we thought?" Jane looked at her friend, and Daria laughed.

"What would any rational person think?" Daria countered, and the girls answered in unison.

"Aneurysm."

**00000**

A small, expectant smile on his face, the short man smoothed his neatly combed hair, brushed at his shirt and flicked a bit of dust off of his emerald-colored kilt. Thus assured of his presentability, he rang the bell.

Daria trotted down the stairs of her parents' Lawndale home, back from college for the anniversary of her parents' first date. Her best friend, Jane Lane, jumped up from the couch and joined Daria just as she unlocked the door.

"Oh, goody! Pizza's early!"

They were standing side by side as the door swung inward, and upon seeing their caller, went deathly still.

"Top o' the day, my bonnie lassies!" St. Patrick's Day greeted with a bow and smile. He wore an ironed linen shirt, white with short sleeves, the tails hanging out in a casual manner over his kilt. A clover blossom peeked out of the breast pocket. "I was wonderin', if it not be too bold, if either of you fine ladies would do me the honor o—"

"NO!" Daria yelled, pointing a finger at Pat and backpedaling frantically. Her boots tangled and she fell backward onto the stairs, her landing cushioned somewhat by the jeans she favored these days. "No. No, no, _no!_"

"I thought the pills were working," Jane muttered as she stared at the little man on the doorstep. "The doctor said the pills were working. Daria, why aren't the pills working?"

Daria was rubbing her temples, eyes squeezed shut, muttering under her breath; her words sounded distinctly like a mantra.

"Dreams are dreams, they can't hurt you. Dreams are dreams, they can't hurt you. " She peeked one eye open, but Pat was still there; she quickly shut it again. "I am the master of my own mind..."

"Um... if this is a bad time—"

"You're not supposed to be here!" Jane yelled, coming violently out of her stupor. She wagged her finger at the specter as though scolding a mischievous dog. "You're not real! NOT REAL! _NO!_"

"But... I—"

"_**GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN!**_" Jane screamed and slammed the door shut.

Pat blinked at the door, confounded to his roots, then shrugged and walked back out to the street. Lawndale was by no means lacking in ladies. He would find a willing companion before the afternoon was up.

Surely.

**00000**

Tiffany blinked at the camera, lustrous black hair cut in an a-symmetrical style so that it swept up over her left shoulder and cascaded down her right. She tilted her head, pouting fetchingly, and droned, "That skiiiiirrt made him look faaaat."

**00000**

"Ex-_cuse_ me?" Sandi tossed her hair and struck a pose, hipshot with her arms crossed under her bust."Like _we_ would ever be seen going anywhere with someone dressed like... _that._"

"Aren't you a_ guuuuuyyy?_" Tiffany frowned, confused. "Whyyyyy are you wearing a skiiiirrt?"

"Um, you really don't have the legs for that particular cut," Stacy advised gently, wincing in sympathy as she ran her eyes over Pat's gams.

"And if you _insist_ on wearing green, I would recommend chartreuse with a bone top for someone of your coloring and..." Sandi smirked. "Stature."

Pat stared at the trio with blank eyes, then turned on his heel and walked away. He shook his head as he went, mostly in an attempt to restore feeling to his numb brain.

**00000**

"Honestly? If Sandi hadn't been there... I might have given him a chance." Stacy winked at the camera, showing much more confidence than anyone who had known her in High School would have believed. "What's a little cross-dressing, if it's all in fun? I mean, I knew it was a kilt, not a skirt, like that even makes a difference. He seemed nice enough, and anyway..."

A mischievous smile curled her raspberry lips as she brushed a hand through her luxurious fall of hair.

"I've always wanted to see what they wear under those things."

**00000**

Pat wandered down Dega Street and decided to stop in for a cup of coffee. He sat at a little table outside a café and signaled a waitress. She had a mane of dark hair, a stud in her nose and a slightly bug-eyed look about her.

"What'll it be?"

"Regular coffee. Cream and sugar."

"Sure thing."

Pat watched the sway of her hips as she walked off, maneuvering between tables and patrons in the tight space. When she returned with his drink, he accepted it gratefully, smiling up at the woman.

"Thank ya, darlin'. You wouldn't happen to have any plans for tonight, would you?"

"My old band's getting together to play a show at the Zon." She smiled and fished a flier out of her apron pocket. "Doors at three, show starts at four. It's an all-day thing, one for the holiday. Maybe I'll see you there."

She waved as she swayed off to see to another customer. Pat drank his coffee in thoughtful silence, then left he money for his drink, plus a large tip. He took the flier with him.

**00000**

"What did I think?" Sandi scoffed. "What was I _supposed _to think? We were in the middle of our holiday reunion, and we get hit on by a cross-dressing midget. Who like, couldn't even pick out suitable clothes for his body type _or_ skin tone."

She shook her head and took a sip of water from one of the bottles provided.

"Even if I _had _been in an experimental mood, I totally wouldn't go for someone dressed like a blind hobo." She jumped, as though just realizing what she had said. "I want that taken off the record."

She dropped the water bottle and lunged at the camera.

"GIVE ME THE TAPE!"

**00000**

It was still a few hours until the Zon would open its doors, so Pat decided to spend his time rounding up a sizeable crowd to bring with him come three o'clock. He showed his flier around to every Proud Irishman and lovely lass he came across. There were a great deal showing their love of the day; wearing green clothes, leprechaun hats, large felt shamrocks or buttons bearing the legend KISS ME, I'M IRISH! Pat was often complimented on his attire, and passed a pint of Guinness in the name of good cheer. It was a good afternoon.

**00000**

"The first thing I noticed about him was the kilt." Andrea grinned and ran a hand through her short black hair, showing off an admirable bruise on her forehead in the process. "Guy shows up in uniform on St. Paddy's Day is looking for a party. And **ANY **guy who buys a round for the whole club on St. Pat's and starts a pub brawl in a grunge club is a legend in my book."

She flexed one toned bicep, showing off a fresh tattoo: the words **St. Pat's** above a shamrock and cudgel, which were crossed with the words **ZON 2004** beneath.

"Best. Party. _Ever._"

**00000**

The Zon ended up opening their doors early to accommodate the sizable crowd amassed and waiting to party. Pat was at their head, grinning from ear to ear as he walked into the club. He was not asked for cover by Bart, the large bouncer with the shaved head. No one seemed to notice.

He immediately spotted his waitress at the bar, chatting up a tall man with shoulder-length black hair. He wore a pair of torn black jeans and a blue tee with the letters **BFAC** stenciled on the back. Pat made his way over, and the man turned just as Pat was about to speak.

"Whoa," the man breathed and a smile surfaced through his goatee. "I remember you."

Pat stared, wide-eyed, before nodding in recognition.

"You're Trent Lane! How've you been these days, lad?"

"Not bad. Cool to see you again, dude."

They shook, and Trent made his way to the stage to check on the set up.

"Hello again, lass." The woman turned, smiled down at the spirit and motioned to the bartender to bring another beer.

"Hey, glad you could make it." She nodded at the crowd congesting the club, eyes full of wonder. "This your doing?"

Pat polished nails against his shirt, smile sly. "Let us say, I have a way with words."

"Cool." She grinned. "I'm Monique."

"Pat."

They shook, and Monique handed him the fresh draft delivered by the bartender. "Thanks, Teddy."

Pat accepted the beer and was just taking the first sip when a trio of interestingly attired women cut him off from his companion. The Harpies had arrived.

Soon the women were busy doing sound checks and tuning instruments, so Pat busied himself at a table playing bar games. Beer pong, quarters, darts—it didn't matter what game it was. If it involved a bar or alcohol in any way, he couldn't lose. Soon he had a sizeable crowd around him and while awaiting the opening chords that would start the party in earnest, Pat decided to entertain his audience by leading them in rousing song.

"How about you, my dear?" He turned to a statuesque brunette with short black hair, black camo cargo pants and an army tank that showed off her svelte figure. She wore studded leather bands on her wrists and a stud in her nose. A silver ankh gleamed on her chest. "Any suggestions?"

Andrea smiled and raised her mug, which sloshed beer down the side and over her arm.

"My mom's maiden name is O'Flannery. She taught me this one when I was twelve." And with that, she began to sing.

"Bugger off you bastards, bugger off!" A collective cheer went up through the crowd, and those who knew the words chimed in.

"Bugger off you bastards, bugger off!  
Like a herd of bloody swine who refuse to leave the trough,  
You'll get no more this evening, so you bastards bugger off!"

The bartender, Teddy, whooped a cheer and shot a stream of beer into his mouth at the last line. He swung his legs over the bar and, sitting on the polished wood, sprayed the crowd with Corona. They cheered again and sang louder.

"You've be a splendid audience—oh my time has past.  
Now, don't you all be letting the door hit you in the ass!  
You've been a lovely audience, but enough is enough—  
We'd take a drink kindly if you'd all just bugger off!

"EVERYBODY!"

Andrea hooked an arm around Pat's neck as they sang, and a green-haired punk with a safety pin in his eyebrow seemed not to take kindly to the gesture. He stopped singing and glared at the little man.

"Bugger off you bastards, bugger off!  
Like a herd of bloody swine who refuse to leave the trough,  
You'll get no more this evening, so you bastards, bugger off!"

A punch connected soundly with Pat's jaw. He dropped his mug and tumbled into Andrea, who grinned and pushed him back in the direction of his attacker.

"**FREE FOR ALL!**" she bellowed, and promptly elbowed a burly blond man in the teeth.

The entire club seemed to erupt into chaos, flinging beer bottles and beating each other with fists, chairs, even other people. The song was on many lips even as they were burst open from hammer blows. Pat watched the riot going on around him and shrugged. It was all a part of the day.

He joined in with the drinking song as he sauntered out of the club, the music from the stage in harmony with the brawl going on around him.

"Here's to all the lovely people who might be waiting for the band,  
And thinking one of them might make a charming one night stand.  
Oh, please don't take offense—this song's not meant for you!  
And we'll be happy to oblige you when this nasty job is through..."

The sun was still shining as he walked on down the road, looking for someone to enjoy his Holiday with. He was sure she was somewhere in Lawndale.

**00000**

"Me?" Monique shrugged, fished in her pocket for a cigarette and lit it, exhaling smoke as she spoke. "First thing I thought was that he seemed lonely. You see a lot of that on Dega Street. People go there to just... exist for a while."

She tapped ash into a bottle cap on the side table, boot nudging a spilled bottle of water as she crossed her legs.

"I thought he seemed alright, especially after he got that killer crowd to come to the show. We usually bring in a good crowd, but nothing like this. Our take was twice what we usually got on a good night, and that's after the damages."

She grinned and winked at the camera.

"Hey, little man. You can party with The Harpies anytime!"

**00000**

Pat sighed. He had met with several lovely girls he might spend time with while he was out, but none of them had proved to be... lasting.

"Sorry," a pleasant black woman with long, braided hair had replied as a large man of matching complexion slipped an arm around her shoulders. "But I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate me going off with a strange guy."

Pat had left. Quickly.

"Gotta watch the shop," said the quiet blonde in a slightly raspy voice when Pat wandered into The Funky Doodle, and he walked out disappointed.

Many women flashed wedding or engagement rings, some rainbow belts or key chains. One petite redhead wearing dark clothes and a large ankh told him she had to get back to feed her mouse.

During his wanderings, Pat had inadvertently started two more fights—one over a shamrock cookie, another because he refused a can of Foster's offered by a bepierced Limey who had taken offense. Pat couldn't help it, the man had reminded him too much of Guy Fawkes Day. They had even sounded alike!

And so Pat sighed, seated on the curb as the sun set, and pulled a bottle of whiskey out of thin air. It seemed, ironically, it was not his day.

**00000**

"So here's the thing," Jane crossed her legs, sitting sideways in her chair to avoid the bloodstains in the carpet. They looked fresh, as did the bandage on the camera man's arm. "When you have a weird encounter like we did with the Holidays, your first thought is mental illness. Well, unless you're a Scientologist."

"Then, it's just a chronicle of religious origin." Daria managed to say this with a straight face, but chuckles and snorts could be heard from the crew.

"But once an outside source confirms your 'delusion,' you start to wonder."

**00000**

"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are callin'," Pat sang morosely, and paused to take a pull from his bottle.

"From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.  
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dyin',  
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide."

"You know, that song was actually written by an Englishman."

Pat ignored the voice and kept singing. Dark had fallen by now, and even if he had cared to see his heckler, he would not have been able.

"But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,  
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.  
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,  
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so."

A sigh came from over his shoulder. "Is there anything sadder than a depressed leprechaun?"

Pat turned to address this person with his empty bottle, and froze, shocked at the smiling brown eyes shining down at him from behind a pair of large, round-framed glasses.

Daria stood there in a forest-green sweater dress that just reached her knees, black leggings, and a white knit belt sinched around her waist. She wore her usual boots and carried a small knit purse in one hand.

"Well," she corrected herself as she bent at the waist to be closer to eye-level with the dreary spirit. Her hair swung out to the side and wafted a scent of aloe and cucumber. "Other than a pub with no beer."

Pat smiled and got to his feet. Sometime during the day, his neat hair had become mussed and was ruffled into wind-blown spikes. His hat was in its usual place atop his blond locks.

"Daria, lass!" Daria smiled as Pat took her hands and twirled her in a circle. "What made ya change your mind?"

"My sister, actually." A sheepish expression passed over her features. "She came home while Jane and I were freaking out. We told her what happened, and she flushed our pills. We didn't have time to get a refill, and figured she was just messing with us when she said she remembered the whole Holiday episode."

Daria turned to survey the dark street, listening to the music drifting out from various buildings.

"So we went to my parents' dinner and afterwards, when they went off for a little 'quiet time,' we ran into Trent. He kind of corroborated Quinn's story. We figured either everyone was crazy, or none of us were. Personally, I'm still inclined to believe the former. After all, this is Lawndale."

She smirked at the Holiday over her shoulder, then turned to face him.

"And so, here we are." She reached out, grabbed Pat's hand and started dragging him up the street. "Come on."

"Where to, me fine lassie?"

Daria allowed a rare grin.

"You'll see."

Jane was waiting in her beat-up '92 Mustang. The duo piled in and they were on their way.

**00000**

"Gawd, can you _imagine?_" Quinn tossed her layered red hair, sipped at a non-fat decaf mocha latte with artificial sweetener, and rolled bright periwinkle eyes. "Stacy calls me up while I'm out getting my parents their first date-aversary present and tells me a little guy in a skirt asked her out to a bar, and the first thing I think is, 'a bar? Really, how '98.' Anyone with taste will ask you out for a Starbucks these days, and maybe to a club later on. But a _bar?_"

She tisked and shook her head, disappointed on her friend's behalf.

"She said it was a guy with an Irish accent, and you don't get a lot of accents in Lawndale. I mean, even the French accents you get at Chez Pierre are totally fake, and the only Irish guy I ever remember hearing about was from Daria, that time I thought my parents were trying to have another baby. Ugh, just the memory..."

She shuddered at the thought.

"So I finish my shopping after getting a totally fetch pair of heels to go with the dress I was going to wear to dinner and headed home. And _what_ do I find? Daria and her friend totally _fa-reaking out_ in the living room, blathering into the phone to some quack about pills and leprechauns and how dreams aren't supposed to hurt you. We were supposed to be leaving for the restaurant in a couple of hours, so I did what I had to do."

Quinn waggled her empty coffee cup, and a PA materialized at her side a moment later to retrieve it. The cup was replaced with a fresh drink and Quinn continued with a put upon sigh.

"I told the truth. Well, you know what they say about desperate times and all that."

**00000**

McGrundy's Pub was alive with music and laughter. Most of the people who had survived the Zon earlier in the day were there, drinking and carousing with their friends. Even the huge bouncer, Maximilian Blake, allowed himself a glass of beer and a smile, though he was not one to shirk responsibility and had never before drank on the job.

Pat sat on the bar, beer in-hand, leading drinking song after drinking song with a wide smile. Trent and the Spiral were the house band, playing the melodies in pleasant beer haze. Beer and lager splashed over the floor from dozens of cups and mugs. Timothy O'Neill stood on a table in a pair of white boxers decorated with four leaf clovers, a pair of penny loafers and nothing else. He sang as loudly as anyone in the place, acting out the more lewd lyrics as people laughed around him. Across the room, Andrea stood with the green-haired punk, arm around his waist, and toasted Pat with her mug. She showed a bloody smile and downed her beer.

Daria sat to Pat's right, Jane to his left, each holding a drink and singing along with their Saint Patrick's Day date. Pat threw an arm around Jane's shoulders, snaked the other around Daria's waist, and beamed around the room as the drink flowed and yet another successful St. Paddy's Day wound down to its end.

"Gather 'round, ye lads and lasses, set ye for a while  
And hearken to me mournful tale about the Emerald Isle.  
Let's all raise our glasses high to friends and family gone  
An' lift our voices in another Irish drinking song!

"Consumption took me mother and me father got the pox,  
Me brother drank the whiskey 'till he wound up in a box.  
Me other brother in the Troubles met with his demise,  
Me sister has forever closed her smilin' Irish eyes.

"Now everybody's died, so until our tears are dried,  
We'll drink and drink and drink and drink, and then we'll drink some more!  
We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light,  
Then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinking once again!

"Ken was killed in Kilkenny and Claire, she died in Clare.  
Tip from Tipperary died out in the Derry air.  
Shannon jumped into the River Shannon back in June,  
Ernie fell into the urn, and Tom is in the tomb."

Daria and Jane toasted that last line and drained their glasses, which seemed to fill themselves again a moment later.

"Cleanliness is godliness," me Uncle Pat would sing;  
He broke his neck a-slippin' on a bar of Irish Spring.  
O'Grady, he was eighty, though his bride was just a pup,  
He died upon the honeymoon when she got his Irish up!

"Now everybody's died, so until our tears are dried,  
We'll drink and drink and drink and drink, and then we'll drink some more!  
We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light,  
Then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinking once again!"

Everyone standing linked arms and did a dizzy jig as a Mexican Hat Dance soloed. Many of them fell to the sodden floor and failed to make it up again.

"Joe Murphy fought with Reilly near the cliffs of old Doneen,  
He took out his shillelagh and he stabbed him in the spleen,  
Crazy Uncle Mike thought he was a leprechaun—  
In fact he's just a leper, and his arms and legs are gone!

"When Timmy Johnson broke his neck, it was a cryin' shame.  
He wasn't really Irish, but he went to Notre Dame.  
McNamara crossed the street and by a bus was hit,  
But he was just a Scotsman, so nobody gave a shit!"

"AUCH!" Everyone cried in unison, hoisting drinks and spilling most of them.

"Now everybody's died, so until our tears are dried,  
We'll drink and drink and drink and drink, and then we'll drink some more!  
We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light,  
Then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up and then go drinking once again!"

The party continued far into the night. The girls did not remember getting home, but awoke in Daria's room the next day with a four leaf clover tucked behind their ears, and wreaths of clover blossoms woven into their hair.

The flowers never wilted, and they wore the clovers, bronzed, on chains around their necks for the rest of their lives. They never again complained of bad luck.

**00000**

"Bar fights, girl chasing, drunken revelry and spontaneous musical cues! Is it something in the water—or in the air?"

A blond reporter stared seriously into the camera, speaking into a microphone as she walked forward.

"Could the spirit of Saint Patrick's Day really be a little man with a comical accent, running around town spreading drunkenness and cheer to everyone he meets? Or could the spirit of the holiday really be... romance?

"We'll leave that up to you to decide, but remember that you saw it here, first! On _Sick, Sad World!_"

**END**.

The songs used in this tale:  
Andrea's song: ]Bugger Off You Bastards!  
The Finale: Another Irish Drinking Song  
And Danny Boy

**Alpacca Bites**: This was written for Write Off Challenge 9 Round 2 on PPMB. Let's see how well it does.


End file.
